


We are the greatest pretenders

by heyshalina, marshmallowfluff



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Stiles, Evil Stiles Stilinski, Gen, M/M, Nogitsune Stiles, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Violence, Possessed Stiles, Post Episode: s03e17 Silverfinger, Protective Derek, Protective Scott, Speculation, The Void
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyshalina/pseuds/heyshalina, https://archiveofourown.org/users/marshmallowfluff/pseuds/marshmallowfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(How am I gonna get myself back home?)</p><p>Derek wishes Scott wasn't such a failure of an alpha, that he had noticed the aura of darkness around Stiles before Derek had. Maybe then, it would be Scott now, staring into Stiles' empty eyes, at his twisted smile, faced with the prospect of killing him.</p><p>"You know, I never wanted to be anything other than human."</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are the greatest pretenders

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Bastille song, "Get Home."
> 
> Basically, us venting our post-"Silverfinger" feels. 
> 
> A oneshot speculating at Derek's first encounter with Stiles after his return and Stiles' possession.
> 
> The non-consensual touching is non-consensual on the parts of both Derek and Stiles, as Stiles is possessed and forcing Derek to touch him. It is also bloody.

The room was dark and the floor was cold; Derek could feel it through the knees of his jeans. Every sense was on high alert. He felt light-headed, and his claws were out, even though he didn't want them to be. If his claws were out, it meant his body sensed danger. It meant his wolf was trying to protect him, and he had never, ever wanted to have to protect himself against Stiles.

He lifted himself to his feet, keeping his shoulders squared and facing the teenager that was standing across the room from him. Derek's hands were shaking visibly, his knees weak. Stiles, though, was standing quite still, unfalteringly, steadily. His head was slightly cocked, his eyes blank yet sharp, empty yet focused. He wasn't smiling, but the corners of his mouth were twitching slightly, like he was hard-put keeping himself from breaking into a grin.

Over the past few days, Derek had thought that Stiles and he always just missed each other, that it was a coincidence that Stiles left a minute before Derek appeared, or the other way around. Now, he thought that Stiles had probably been avoiding him on purpose. Or that whatever was inside Stiles had been avoiding him on purpose. Because he thought it knew that Derek would be able to spot the aura, would notice that something was wholly wrong with Stiles, even when no one else had.

 He wished Scott wasn't such an idiot, didn't suck so much at being a werewolf. He wished Scott would have noticed that Stiles was wrong, was empty and cold and dark inside. Then, maybe it would have been Scott here now, instead of Derek, facing the cold eyes of a Stiles that wasn't Stiles, and the prospect of having to kill him.

Because, as much as Derek had complained about Stiles’ incessant chattering, his always getting in the way, his stupid, infallible loyalty, he did not want to hurt him. He couldn't hurt Stiles.

Apparently, Stiles had no problem with the vice versa.

Derek understood why the spirit had kept Stiles away from him. Its aura was concealed, barely there from years of hiding, but it was dark. It was pure darkness, and everything that Stiles wasn't, everything Derek knew Stiles not to be.

Derek's breathing was hard and fast against the silence of the room surrounding them. Suddenly, the flickering at the edges of Stiles’ lips broke into a sly grin, void of any mirth. It looked misplaced on his face.

"Oh, Derek," he mused, sounding all kinds of wrong. "I knew you'd come back."

Derek clenched his jaw, and his fingers twitched. "What?"

"In my heart of hearts, I always knew you'd return to me," cooed Stiles, putting his hands over his heart, his swooning expression entirely and bitterly sarcastic. Mechanic. "At least, I knew you'd return to _Scott_. You always come back for Scott. I know you don't like me much, no matter how _hard_ I tried."

"What do you mean?" asked Derek, unable to keep the gruff question from spilling out of his mouth, even though he knew it wasn't really Stiles talking, it couldn't really be Stiles.

Stiles spread his arms and turned his eyebrows upward sympathetically. His jaw was squared in a way that Derek had never seen it set before. Despite the emotion and sarcasm pouring from his mouth, his face remained nearly impassive. It was unnerving. "I've saved your life, multiple times. I've researched for you, hell, I’ve hidden you in my bedroom when you were a wanted criminal. But no matter how hard I try for you, you never notice me. It's a pity, really. Maybe if you cared, I wouldn't be in this situation right now, trapped inside my mind with no way out."

He tapped the side of his head and his expressionless face suddenly split as he smiled a wide, Cheshire grin. It was such a Stiles smile that Derek almost allowed his stoically angry expression to slip into something much more raw and open.

"I always..." Derek struggled. "I always cared."

Stiles threw up his hands in apology. "Sorry, Derek, a little too late. I'm trapped in here. I can't hear you. Maybe, if you'd pulled your head out of your ass a little earlier, I wouldn't be like this now." He stuck out his lower lip in a mock-pout, but his nose didn't crinkle. Wrong. "You know, I never wanted to be anything other than human."

Something churned in the pit of Derek's stomach. He held onto the anger, anchored it within him. "Get out of him," he growled, trying not to let his voice waver. "Get out of him right now."

"What are you talking about, Derek?" Stiles, no, the _thing_ asked, innocence in his tone. "I'm right here."

"You're not Stiles." Derek's voice pitched lower with rage.

Stiles laughed. It didn't reach his empty eyes. "Of course I'm Stiles!" He started tapping his limbs, rapping his knuckles on his head. "Same arms. Same noggin." Beat. "Same heart. Although it may be a little dark right now."

"Get. Out."

"Lalalala," Stiles cried out, slapping overlarge hands ( _strong hands_ ) over his ears. "I can't hear you, Derek! _I can't hear you_!"

Derek paused, breathing heavily. "Stiles." He offered. "If you're in there, if you can hear me–“

Stiles let out a long, suffering sigh. "Alright, you got me." He shrugged, smirk on his lips. "Stiles isn't here. He's trapped. Stuck. _Vamanos_ , bye-bye. In fact," It stopped, cocking its head as if it was listening for something. Derek's breath bated. Suddenly, Stiles’ face broke into an ever wider grin, and this time, it didn't look like Stiles at all, in any form of imagination. His voice dipped down in register just slightly, his previous lighthearted tone turning sinister. "I don't think he's in here at all, anymore. Oh, Derek…"

Derek took a small step forward, growling. "Don't–"

"I think he may be dead."

Hearing the words aloud made his stomach twist painfully, made his claws twitch and his eyes burn blue, even though he knew the statement was a lie.

He knew it in his bones, deep down in the core of whatever it was that made him a werewolf. Because losing a pack member was like losing a limb, and he hadn't lost the limb that was Stiles yet.

Yet.

And his stomach twisted even more painfully, nauseatingly, because there was that _yet_ , that tangible sense of _when_ hanging above his shoulders. Stiles wasn't dead yet, but before this was over, he could be.

Derek might have to be responsible for another pack death. Just weeks after burying Boyd and Erica. Barely a year after burying Laura. And not long enough since the death of his pack for the scent of his family's burnt flesh to leave his nose.

And this was Stiles, who had looked so young the day they first met. Yes, Derek always came for Scott. But that was because Scott was in this whether he wanted to be or not ( _he couldn't escape from Derek_ ); nothing could change that. And maybe Derek was happy to have more pack after Laura, but Scott was just Scott, always had been.

But Derek ruined everything he touched, and Stiles was the one person who he had tried his very best not to touch, not to ruin. If he looked like he didn't care, it was only because people he cared about tended to die. Derek never wanted that for Stiles. Yet here Stiles was, standing in his loft, his posture so much more strong and confident and _intimidating_ than Derek had ever seen him, with his smile malicious and something dark and foreign staring through his eyes.

The tension in the room whispered of encroaching death, but Derek chose to ignore it.

"Why Stiles?" He growled, stalling for time. He tried to creep his hand into his pocket, where his cell phone was. If he could signal for reinforcements without tipping Stiles off, the rest of Scott's pack could get there and help take him down. Without killing him.

Because... because Derek couldn't do it.

"Oh, because he's so _delightful_ ," Stiles cackled. It was an unnatural sound, and it sent goose-bumps down Derek's arms. "So much hurt and blame, it's _delicious_. He's like a regular angst bucket. Second only to you, I suppose, but he's just so much more inconspicuous. And you left me."

"Stop," Derek hissed at the change in pronoun. The words coming out of Stiles' mouth sounded exactly like how the real Stiles would say them, and it was messing with his head.

Stiles took a step closer. Derek backed up closer towards the wall.

"Or maybe because it's just so much fun." Stiles sneered. It looked off when his face moved, lips forming words and eyebrows jumping, but with no emotion, no spark in his eyes. It reminded Derek of practicing smiling in the mirror during the year after his family’s death. No matter how hard he tried, they never looked real. "I like to make you _squirm_. What should we make him do now, Derek?" He bounced juvenilely up and down a couple times. "Jump? Twirl? Maybe you should kiss him, Derek. Maybe I should make him _bleed_."  
  
Derek ignored the stabbing words and maintained a poker face. "You didn't answer the question," he said, taking another step back, which Stiles matched. "Why?"  
  
Stiles’ face twisted into a snarl, leaning forward. Something dark and colorless filled his eyes. He took the final step forward into Derek's personal space, raking his eyes across the werewolf's chest and face, teeth nearly bared. Suddenly he straightened, sinister poise and confidence replaced in an instant. Stiles blinked, sudden and rare showcase of emotion gone and replaced with a slate.  
  
"Because I want to hear them scream."

Stiles grinned and lifted his arms, gesturing up and down his own body.  
  
"This guy? He's a pushover, and so very, very forgettable. Everyone runs around on their supernatural business and they don't notice him unless they need him to do something. And you know what? He _lets_ them. You all walk all over him and shove him to the side, and he _doesn't care._ That's the beauty of it. Because the weird thing?" He cocks his head and runs his hand down his stomach casually, distractingly.  
  
After a moment, Derek finally responded. "What?"  
  
He grinned. "The weird thing is that, despite all of that, the one person not a single one of them would kill? It's Stiles here. There's something about him." He lifted his hand up to inspect his fingernails. "The icing on the cake was the echoing pit of desolation and despair in this kid's heart. I didn't even have to knock to be let in, the door was already ajar. Then he opened it the rest of the way."  
  
Derek was slowly trying to key Scott's number into his phone. He wished he'd learned how to program speed-dial.

Stiles’ eyes slid down to Derek's pocket and he shook his head with a smirk.  
  
"You sly dog, you got me monologuing! I guess you're not as dense as they all think, huh? Oh, well..." He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Guess it's time for Little Red to fight the Big Bad Wolf."

Before Derek could blink, Stiles’ fist soared through the air and caught him on the jaw, the force behind the blow much stronger than anything Stiles should have been able to muster. Derek fell against the wall, limbs flailing. Stiles’ hand fisted in the fabric of Derek's t-shirt and heaved him upwards, slamming him into the drywall and cracking it behind his back, his face tragically impassive. The impulse to fight was overwhelming, but Derek held it in, claws digging into the wall behind him instead of Stiles’ sides.  
  
"Oh, my, how the tables have turned." Stiles mused softly, tilting his head toward the crook of Derek's neck. He hovered there for a moment, breathing onto Derek's skin, before snapping his head up and making eye contact.  
  
Derek looked into his honey-brown eyes, searching for a trace of Stiles in the irises. There was nothing; just a sort of sharp emptiness that bored straight into Derek and turned him inside out.  
  
"I won't hurt you," he grated out. Stiles _tsk_ ed, pursing his lips.  
  
"Oh, well, that's no fun," Stiles tutted. Derek hissed as Stiles’ fingers began to dig into the meat of his shoulders, drawing blood. "You know, Derek, Stiles should _thank_ me. He's always felt so _useless,_ so powerless, the weak little human. But for some reason, he never wanted the bite." Derek grunted as Stiles sunk his fingers in deeper. "Always wanted to be _human_. But now," Stiles chuckled, licking his lips. "Now I'm strong. I can take what I want."  
  
"Stiles knows that he's important," Derek grunted, the sudden change in pronoun not phasing him. _Not Stiles. Not actually Stiles_. "You took him by force."  
  
"Is that why you _left me_?" Stiles roared, making Derek grind his teeth. "Is that why you _left_ , Derek? While Scott, and Allison, and I, we were dying? I was _drowning,_ Derek. I was losing my mind, I _am_ losing. My. _Mind_! And you _left_."  
  
Derek winced as Stiles' voice cracked on the words, his expression flickering, anger and hurt etched into the lines around his eyes.  _It's not him_ , he reminded himself. "I didn’t leave him."   
   
"You did,” Stiles seethed. “You left me. I was drowning, and you didn’t even _try_ to keep me afloat. Way to pay back my favor, huh, Derek? No, you just ran off as fast as you could with your little sister who needed you a whole _fucking_ lot less than I did. Well, look at us now. Where's Cora, Derek?" he screamed. "Where's your better life? Because," he broke off into a snicker, "Because this is _mine_. And, yeah, now I can _take_ what I want."

He leaned into Derek, smiling up at him through his fluttering eyelashes.

"You, pinned up against the wall," he laughed, hooding his eyelids. "Chest to chest. You, saying you _care_ about him. It's like straight out of one of his wet dreams."  
  
Derek balked, and he couldn't help his eyebrows drawing together, confusion showing in his expression.  
  
Stiles saw his reaction, and raised his eyebrows and scoffed in disbelief. He took a step back from Derek, fingers withdrawing, bloody, from Derek's shoulders.  
  
"No way," he said, shaking his head. "No fucking way!" He laughed, bending over, clapping his thighs with his palms. "I thought you _knew_. I haven't been trying to hide it. I haven't even been _subtle_. Oh, _this_ , this is why he was so _easy_. He's _desperate_." He cackled some more. “Oh, well, at least now that he’s a bad guy, his chances with you have just about skyrocketed, huh?”  
  
He straightened suddenly, his smile wild and shadows blackening his vacant eyes. "He was saving himself for someone special," he purred, "But what do you say I get rid of his virginity for him? It shouldn't be too hard to find someone _desperate_ enough. A bored husband, maybe, or a sweaty old businessman. He'll wake up all shiny and new – scratch that, I meant dirty and used…"  
  
Derek snarled and before he could think, he was pinning Stiles to the ground, his fists tangled in the front of his shirt, the fabric shredding in his claws. His eyes were glowing, his fangs bared, a growl tearing through his chest.  
  
His eyes stared straight into Stiles’. The darkness stared back.  
  
"It's a pity," he whispered. "He always wanted this to go a bit differently. With a bed and cuddling and aftercare, you know, the whole shebang. You've got the foreplay right, at least."  
  
"Shut up," Derek said brokenly, his shoulders slumping.  
  
"What was that?" he asked. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over the sound of Stiles' pathetic unrequited love."  
  
Derek's shoulders squared and he hunched over Stiles, muscles bunching in his back, rippling in his arms. His chest felt like it was being ripped open with the strength of the howl forcing out through his teeth.  
  
" _SHUT UP_."  
  
Stiles laughed and grabbed Derek's shaking fists. "Come on, Derek, let's make his dreams come true." He jerked Derek's hands to the side, causing his claws, gripped in the fabric of Stiles’ shirt, to tear the shirt open, baring his chest.  
  
"Now," Stiles smirked, suddenly flipping Derek over until he was on top of him, straddling his hips and raising his fists to hover over Derek's face, "Let's actualize your nightmares. I know a few ways I can force you to kill this boy. Let's see which one works best."

Derek glared at him. He chuckled.

"How long do you think we have until Scotty finds out something's wrong? With his head so fogged up with that kitsune's foxfire, oh, it could be," he dropped his head so that his mouth was above Derek's neck again, "Hours. Days, even. Who's gonna miss Derek, except for Stiles? And with Stiles gone, and Scott occupied, well... who's gonna miss anyone?"  
  
"We have a pack," Derek snarled.  
  
" _Stiles_ has a pack," Stiles replied. "You, my dear, are the creepy stalker outside the playground. You're nearly reaching omega territory there, Der. The whole pack's after Scott's dick, they're not going to notice little Derek missing _in his own apartment_. And well, everyone thinks that Stiles is–" He made a swirly motion next to his head, making a whistling noise. He dipped down closer, pushing his chest toward Derek's and planting his mouth on the skin of his neck, under his jaw, assertively, and not at all a kiss.  
  
"Oh, Derek," Stiles moaned in a sing-song voice. "You can't save him, he's so, so broken. You're gonna have to kill him, you'll have to dig another grave. But how, how can you do it?"  
  
Derek rumbled a low sound, an angry sound, deep in his throat, a constant reminder in his head keeping him still, stalling until Scott would (hopefully) arrive.  
  
 _He can't heal he can’t heal he can't heal_ …  
  
"He wants you so much," the creature with Stiles’ face sighed into Derek. "He'll be so upset to see all his friends, bloodied. It's all he thinks about, it's all he dreams, I mean, other than this. _This_ is heaven."  
  
Then Stiles grabbed Derek's hand, his clawed hand, and slammed it onto the space above his ass.

Derek's hand felt like it was burning as Stiles slid it lower, his fingers edging into the hem of Stiles’ jeans. Stiles rocked his hips and put his other hand on Derek's chest, splaying his fingers over his heart. It was warm. It was hot. It was burning him alive.  
  
"Come on, Derek," Stiles huffed. "Let's put on a show. Let's make innocent, pathetic, _virgin_ Stiles look like a slut tonight." He slid Derek's hand further into his pants until Derek's palm was cupping his ass, and Derek felt wetness, and scented blood in the air that wasn't his own. His claws were digging into Stiles' sensitive skin there.  
  
Derek struggled to retract his claws, but the overwhelming panic and fury and sense of danger made it impossible.  
  
"Yeah," Stiles jeered, arcing into Derek's touch, driving Derek's claws deeper into his flesh. "Treat him like a whore, Der-bear. Send him home to daddy covered with handprints. Make sure everyone knows what a horny bitch Stiles Stilinski is."  
  
He gyrated his hips and tilted his head back, exposing his neck. His bare chest was slender and glowed slightly in the light from the waning moon. The rise and fall of his chest, the curve of his back, the swell of his ass... But none of it appealed to Derek, because every single aspect of the situation was so _un-Stiles_. Stiles would be babbling and nervous laughter and flailing and clumsiness, not any of this practiced elegance or dirty talk. It wasn't _Stiles_.  
  
"I think I'm gonna go to school tomorrow," it breathed, "And sell BJs in the locker room, so when he wakes up again the whole school will know what a fucking whore he is..." He dragged Derek's hand out of his jeans suddenly, forcing Derek to slice long claw marks up his ass and lower back. "... Except him."  
  
The biting tang of iron was in the air.  
  
Stiles raised Derek's hand up to his mouth and licked the blood off of his middle finger with a smile that _was_ Stiles’ smile, without his eyes, and Derek finally found himself pushing away from him, blood pounding in his ears and trying not to cringe at the red stain spreading across the back of Stiles’ pants.

"What's wrong, Derek?" Stiles asked. Derek continued to scoot back, breath coming out in staccato bursts. Stiles – _the thing_ – stood, hands coating red as he drew them across his back. "Don't you like it?"  
  
Derek gasped. "No."  
  
His head cocked. Damn it. "Don't you like _me_?"  
  
"You fucker," Derek growled. "You stole him."  
  
"I _saved_ him, you miserable ass," he barked. "This child is the only thing keeping your ragtag group of imbeciles alive. He has true potential. He–" suddenly he began to laugh. "Well, he cares just too goddamn much."

"Get out of him," Derek said. "Go find someone else."  
  
"Aw, he really does care." Stiles jeered. He shrugged. "I think I may stay a little bit longer, Derek, I mean, we're getting so _close_."  
  
"I don't want to hurt you."  
  
"Like you can," Stiles snapped. "Have you once thought, Derek, what an empty shell you left behind? Stiles is _broken_. Have you thought, just once, that maybe Stiles _wants_ me here?"  
  
"He wouldn't…" Derek felt his fangs bare. His hands wouldn't stop shaking; his claws wouldn't retract. And Stiles was so still.  
  
"He's such a curious mind," he mused. "Why close a door when you can see what's behind it?"  
  
"He's better than that," Derek said. "He wouldn't give himself up to something like you."  
  
"I think you may have too much faith, Derek," Stiles replied. Derek scrambled to his feet as it spoke with Stiles’ voice. His tone turned lighthearted, but calculating. "But... maybe not. I guess it really doesn't matter, does it? Who're you gonna call, Der? Scotty-boy? The Lahey kid? Let's have them come find Stiles’ corpse on the floor of your loft."  
  
"They're not going to find anyone dead," Derek said, trying to make himself believe it. "We're going to get Stiles free, and then we're going to kill you."  
  
"Derek, if you finally want to proclaim your forbidden, unconditional love for Stiles, you can do it now." Stiles spread out his arms. "I'll be sure that Stiles knows you said it before you rip out his throat."  
  
Derek gulped down the baseball in his throat. "No."  
  
"C'mon, Der," Stiles said, running a bloody hand down his body. "Admit it."  
  
"No."  
  
"Don't _LIE TO ME_ ," Stiles shouted, fist whipping forward and slamming Derek's face back. He felt something in his nose give, and blood began streaming down his face. Stiles came forward and fisted both hands in Derek's collar, bending his neck and coming close. "You're not a puppy, Derek. Let me see your _fangs_."  
  
Derek let his eyes glow sharp blue. He took a deep breath and then turned his head, facing Stiles head on and letting loose a roar from his mouth. He wasn't an alpha anymore, but the action was well practiced; the sound and power moved Stiles’ hair back, messing it up even more. His face split into a grin.

There was a moment of silence and panted breath. Stiles cooed tenderly. "My, what big teeth you have."

Derek let out another growl, more hostile than before.

"That's it, big boy," he hissed. "I want Stiles' ears to still be ringing when he wakes up. I want him to wake up _aching_ and not knowing where all the new claw marks came from. I want him to feel the ghosts of your fingers around his _neck_."  
  
Stiles bunched his fists in the fabric of Derek's shirt and threw him bodily so that his back collided with the table and he lay there, dazed.  
  
Stiles strode over to him until he was standing in between Derek's legs, which were hanging over the edge of the table. He grabbed Derek's hands and placed then firmly on his chest, dragging them slowly down, leaving bloody lines zigzagging down Stiles’ pale, freckled skin.  
  
"Mark him up, you monster," he breathed. Derek shoved forward and Stiles allowed himself to be pushed back, smiling with glee. "That's it, Derek! Come on! Let's kill this boy together!"  
  
Derek gritted his fangs and pulled his arms up over his head to grip the edge of the table, then lifted his feet and used them to kick off the other edge, executing a backflip that had him crouched on the floor across from Stiles, the distance broken by the table between them.  
  
"Why would you want your vessel killed," growled Derek, reaching into his pocket to dial Scott. What number had he left off on? Four? Or nine?  
  
Stiles shrugged and casually tucked his hands into his back pockets, spreading his torn shirt at the same time to reveal the ten ragged, claw-inflicted wounds paralleling each other down his slender torso.  
  
"You won't be able to kill him," he said. "At least, not while I'm in here. But I want to give him a fight, a struggle. I want him to wake up with proof that there was a battle that he can't remember. I want to drive him _insane_. I want him to taste blood, and not know whose it is." He pulled his right hand out of his back pocket and lifted it in front of his face. It was painted with blood from the claw wounds that were still steadily dying the back of his pants red.  
  
Stiles put his bloody fingers in his mouth, sucking them with an obscene vulgarity that made Derek feel empty inside to watch. Stiles' eyes fluttered shut; his cheeks hollowed; his lips stained red; blood smeared onto the corners of his mouth, his chin, the tip of his upturned nose.  
  
"Mmm," he finally said, pulling his fingers out if his mouth with a wet _pop_ , and looking up to smile at Derek. His teeth were coated in red. "Want a taste?"  
  
Derek hit the call button and heard the small, tinny sound of his phone start ringing. Stiles’ eyes flickered to his pocket.

"Oh, you naughty dog," Stiles grinned, red teeth gleaming. He huffed, and then in one swift motion he launched himself over the table, slamming his feet into Derek's chest. He dropped his elbow and swung it up and through Derek's cheek, sending him to the ground. The cell phone clattered to the floor, and Stiles swept it up in his nimble hands, taking a foot and placing it on Derek's windpipe, pressing down and making him choke.  
  
The phone kept ringing. And ringing.  
  
And ringing.  
  
The Cheshire cat look returned to Stiles’ face, more macabre due to the amount of blood streaking his visage, lit by the eerie moonlight coming in through the windows. It wasn't full. Derek almost wished it was.  
  
The phone clicked. The grin slid off of Stiles’ face.  
  
 _"Derek?"_ Scott's voice came through the phone's small speakers, staticy and obviously annoyed. Stiles held the phone closer to his face, pressing down on Derek's throat even harder, making him sputter.

"Scott?" asked Stiles, his voice suddenly small and shaky and very much Stiles. "Scott, help."  
  
 _"Stiles? What's wrong? Where are you?"_ came Scott's panicked voice through the tiny speaker. Stiles flashed a smile at Derek, who was still struggling for breath, then responded.  
  
"I'm at Derek's loft," he said, voice breaking on Derek's name. "He... He hurt me, it h-hurts, it _hurts_."  
  
 _"Derek did_ what _?"_ bellowed Scott through the phone. _"Hang on, Stiles, I'm coming, just hold on."_  
  
The line went dead, and Stiles flicked his phone shut with a snap and tossed it carelessly to the floor away from him. He looked down at Derek, smirking.  
  
Stiles kneeled down, the pressure on Derek's windpipe increasing and leaving him struggling to cough, wheezing.  
  
"I think I better get going, then," Stiles said. "Save the rest of the slaughter for after I torture Stiles with the whole not-knowing-how-he-got-to-be-covered-in-blood bit."  
  
He lifted his foot away and replaced it with both hands, grabbing the front of Derek's shirt and lifting him bodily, pushing him back up against the dirty windows.  
  
"Your nose is already healed," Stiles mused. "Your cheek, too. You're not gonna bruise."  
  
He grinned and grabbed Derek's hand, pressing it flat against his chest and using it to smear the blood from his claw wounds in a horizontal streak.  
  
"These?" he whispered gleefully. "These last a bit longer. It's a human body, after all. He won't heal." He moved Derek's hand around and slid it down his back until Derek was again cupping Stiles’ ass, this time over his clothes. The denim was wet through with sticky blood. "These? These are permanent. He's gonna have your fingerprints on his ass for the rest of his life. They're gonna _scar_."  
  
Derek stared up into Stiles’ face, into his cold, dark, blank eyes. His smile was still bloody.  
  
"Before I go and leave you to Scott's wrath, let's give Stiles a parting gift. A little something to remember you by. I'll make sure he can still feel it when he wakes up."  
  
And he leaned forward and pressed his mouth over Derek's in a gruesome kiss, his tongue working between Derek's lips and tracing his clenched teeth. He smashed their mouths together with force, teeth clacking and jaws bruising. Derek tried to pull away. The long fingers that had snaked around his throat made it impossible.  
  
Derek could smell the blood on Stiles’ lips, taste the iron coating his teeth. His tongue was like acid wherever it went, leaving the taint of Stiles’ blood striped throughout the inside of his mouth. With every swallow, every movement of his tongue, every inhale, Derek smelled Stiles’ blood.  
  
Stiles finally pulled away with a laugh, releasing his hold on Derek's neck and standing up, straightening his back and looking down at him, his malicious grin exaggerated by shadows. The light from the moon shone in his hair and glowed on his skin, softening the curve of his cheekbones and the dip of his collar.  
  
"That was nice," he said. He dragged his palm through the wounds on his chest and pressed it down flat onto Derek's table, leaving a handprint. "You already have my number. That's just a reminder to call."

"Stiles," Derek coughed, as the boy began to walk away, shoes clicking on the concrete. "Stiles."  
  
"I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain check, I'm on a time limit." Stiles tossed over his shoulder. "I'm sure once he's through with the psychosis, and the PTSD, and all his friends dying, Stiles would love to come back for round two."  
  
"Stiles, listen to me." Derek pulled himself from his position, fingers ghosting over deep imprints in his neck, bruises already beginning to heal. " _Stiles_. Please."  
  
Stiles stopped in his tracks, posture breaking down and shoulders sagging. The sight looked so much like _Stiles_ that Derek felt something shift in his chest. He breathed heavily, neck throbbing, voice hoarse. He brought up a shaking hand.  
  
"Please."  
  
Beat.  
  
"I'm afraid that's not quite enough, Sourwolf," Stiles muttered. He turned his head and caught his eye; Derek stared into an empty void. "I gotta go."  
  
"Stiles!" Derek shouted, voice breaking. It strode to the loft door, heaving it open with one hand and then, in one step and one flick of the wrist, the door slammed shut, and he was gone. Derek took a look around his loft: his table with a now cracked top, his crumbling drywall, blood all over–  
  
– _Stiles’_ blood.  
  
Derek sunk to the ground, landing with a thud. He cradled his head in his clawed hands, breath uneven and choked. "Fuck." he heaved into his knees, terror lacing through his blood and guilt through his heart. "Fuck."

There was something loud thundering throughout the loft, an unsteady beating echoing in his ears, making his head ache. He didn't know what was making it, but it seemed to just keep getting louder and louder and _louder_ …  
  
The door to the loft slammed open, and the noise jumped, skipping a beat, and Derek realized that the thunder was his heart nearly rocketing out of his chest.  
  
"DEREK!" Scott shouted from the doorway, an alpha roar in his voice, a growl in his chest.  
  
Derek didn't move. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, claws digging into his palms, blood running down his hands and mingling with that of Stiles’ that was already congealing.  
  
Scott saw him and Derek felt Scott’s anger falter as he saw something in Derek’s posture that made him hesitate. "Where's Stiles?" he asked, taking a nervous step forward. His eyes flitted about the loft, drinking in the dented wall, the blood on the floor and on the table, and on Derek.  
  
"That... wasn't Stiles," Derek said, looking up at Scott. Scott's eyes focused on his mouth and his eyes flashed red.  
  
"Is that _blood_? Is that _Stiles’_ blood?" he asked, appalled, anger coloring his tone again. "Did you _bite_ him?"  
  
Derek shook his head slowly. "It wasn't Stiles," he repeated, louder. "Stiles is... He's the one the oni are looking for, the dark spirit. It's Stiles."  
  
Scott stared at him, then shook his head. "No, it's not. They're looking for someone supernatural. Stiles is just human. Besides, Stiles isn't evil."  
  
Derek stared past Scott at the open door, the door that Stiles had left through just minutes ago.

"He's _not_ evil," he said with conviction. "He's possessed."

"Possessed?" Scott scoffed. He turned, looking across the loft with a troubled look on his face. He jogged over to the spiral staircase and took the steps three at a time, peeking into the upper level to where Derek’s bed was, raking his gaze over everything like it was a suspect. "Stiles! Stiles, where are you?"  
  
"He left." Derek said stiffly. "He's gone."  
  
Scott whipped his head around, eyes alpha-red. "If you hurt him–"  
  
Derek opened his mouth to snap back, but the words got caught in his throat. His hand drifted up to his neck, and Scott narrowed his eyes, coming closer.  
  
"Derek," the boy said. God, he sounded so young. _Stiles is that young._  "Derek, what happened?"  
  
"It's hurting him." Derek choked out. "It's hurting him, and it's going to hurt others."  
  
"Your neck–"  
  
"You have to find him," Derek cut him off, hands fisting. He took a deep breath, unsurprised when it came out rattled. "You have to find him."  
  
The only sounds were the running generator, Scott's shallow breaths, and Derek's pounding, deafening heartbeat.  
  
"Derek, tell me what happened, tell me what he did," Scott said. There was authority there. Derek ignored it.  
  
"Go."  
  
Beat.  
  
"Derek–"  
  
" _GO!"_ Derek roared, eyes burning. He swallowed quickly, easing the prickle. He was still shaking. "It went somewhere with his body, he's hurt. You won't be able to see the aura, you don't know how to look, but it's there. He – he's hurt, you have to go."  
  
Scott stood silently, clenching and unclenching his fingers into loose fists. His eyes moved and focused on the bloody handprint on the table. He swallowed and his jaw tensed.  
  
"Alright," he said, nodding once. "Yeah, okay. I'll look for Stiles." He looked back at Derek, to where the strangulation bruises had already nearly faded.  
  
He turned and left, leaving the door hanging open. Leaving Derek alone, blood drying on his hands and face and flaking off of his claws.  
  
He tried standing. It didn't work.  
  
Was there even a way to save Stiles? The _thing_ had seemed so confident that it would _win_. What if it did? What if it never let Stiles go?

Derek didn't know how long he spent sitting there. A while. Forever.  
  
Suddenly, a ringing started to echo throughout the empty loft. It was his cell phone.  
  
His cell phone was ringing.  
  
Derek found the strength in his legs to get to his feet, and, mechanically, walked over to the spot on the ground where Stiles had thrown his phone. The screen was lit up, flashing an unknown number.  
  
He answered it with a shaking hand, leaving red smudges on the screen and keys.  
  
He lifted the phone to his ear and remained silent, not breathing.   
   
 _"_ _Derek?"_ came a shaky voice through the speakers. _"Derek, are you there? Oh god, please be there..."_ Stiles let out a stuttering breath.

Derek listened to him, gritting his teeth, unable to make himself answer.

 _"Derek, please, I think... I think something attacked me. I don't... I don't know, I can't remember what happened, I..."_ There was an audible sob that had Derek digging his claws into his thigh to keep his control. _"I woke up and I'm covered in blood. Something... Someone_ clawed _me, my chest, and my..."_ He swallowed and his breath hitched. _"It hurts so bad, I think I… I think I've lost blood, I've got bruises on my knuckles like I_ punched _someone, and I just_ can't remember _..."_  
  
Stiles stopped talking, choking on a sob, and Derek gritted his teeth as blood ran down his thigh, not removing his claws. He didn't want to heal, not right now.  
  
 _"Derek?"_ he asked. _"Are you..?"_ He paused, sighing, and then quietly, whispered under his breath, _"Do you even care?"_  
  
Derek jerked at that, his eyes honing in on Stiles' handprint on the table, his jaw clenching and eyebrows drawing together.  
  
 _Stiles needs to know I care,_ he thought, opening his mouth to object, to tell him that of course he did, he always had.  
  
 _"Oops,"_ Stiles said, a dark, empty humor suddenly filling his voice. _"Time's up! Geez, it's a pity you hesitated. Now he'll never get to hear those words from you."_ He laughed _. "See you later, Derek. Next time, don't hold back, okay? And not with the mushy-gushy, made-me-throw-up-in-my-mouth-a-little, romantic stuff. I mean with the punches. Someone's gotta die sooner or later, yeah?"_  
  
The line went dead.  
  
And Derek was left, standing alone in his loft, the phone beeping monotonously into his ear, with the taste of Stiles' blood in his mouth and a handprint on his table that might as well have been a knife in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is our first RP/collaboration, and any feedback you have is greatly appreciated.


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